I decided to take a break from the reflexive writing about my book and lend you some insight into other projects. There are parallel lines running through my life so it’s hard to pay equal attention to everything. Following a very half-baked conversation on the merits (or downfalls) of time travel on Saturday evening, Ian told me I should try to write a short story that mirrored our concerns about the consequences of building a time machine. I, of course, have no understanding of quantum physics or anything like that… but God almighty do I ever love satire!
I wrote nine or ten pages yesterday and wanted to share the first “part” of the story with all three of you. Eventually I’m going to turn this into a graphic novel with some help from Dan the Z. Once Ian comes home the three of us (plus maybe a fourth/fifth/sixth) will record a CD of music inspired by the story, to be packaged with the graphic novel.
Enjoy.
***
A great and noble scientist looked up from the cluttered desk in his laboratory. Sweat was lashing off his forehead. Crumpled papers strewn across the room, the place was like Dresden. With a stabbing motion he grabbed at the sheet he had been writing on, and he gripped the thing in his old, wiry hand. It was the schematic for his greatest invention. Through a relatively simple set of algorithms the scientist had unlocked the secret of time travel. He thought he did, at least.
With a fist extended victoriously in the air, he dashed through the bowels of the science building screaming in jubilee. He, an itinerant professor who had arrived on campus a few years ago, had become a respected member of the community, and was now poised to warble the opening notes of his swan song. Colleagues with necks like giraffes peeked around the doors of adjacent labs and classrooms to spy the commotion. One by one, they shuffled in his direction to inquire about the discovery. He called his wife. He prayed to his deceased parents. Then he asked his friend, Dr. Stephens, to call the press. A conference was schedule for the following afternoon. There he would outline the construction process and offer citizens the opportunity to partake in the experimental stages of developing the world’s first time machine.
He stuffed his notes into his briefcase, locked it and headed home. He wanted to tell his wife the whole story. He wanted a glass of wine. Maybe they would make love this evening. After all, it had been months, and he was about to become an international sensation. His name would come before even Einstein in the Who’s Who of science. Well, unless it was in alphabetical order. Still, future generations might dub him the father of time travel. Might? Of course they would! He was bound to get laid tonight. No woman can resist the temptation of making love to a renowned physicist.
He hopped in his Saab and tossed the briefcase on the passenger seat. Before exiting the lot, he flipped on the radio and set the tuner to the all-news station. They were updating traffic and weather, but not scientific breakthroughs. He drove slowly along Route-128 towards his home in a rural neighborhood about an hour outside of town. Cars sped past him honking noisily as he played with the dial. Finally he came to a station that picked up on the AP’s story. As soon as he heard his name mentioned, he turned off the radio. He pumped his fists madly and accelerated. He was heading home.
He arrived to find the front door open, his wife standing and waiting with her arms crossed over her chest. Her wispy, ashen hair was tied back, but some strands fell in her eyes. She wore a long tan skirt and a powder blue sweater vest she had knit herself.
“You’re late!” She said loudly as he tugged at his briefcase and shut the car door.
“Traffic…” He responded. “Hello, pea.” He leaned in and planted a kiss on her lips. She reached around him and squeezed gently.
“Herman, what have you done?”
“I did it, Lenore. I finally did it.” She looked into his glassy eyes and smiled as she led him inside.
“Let’s eat. I want to hear all about it.”
When they were gorged on flank steak, potatoes and red wine, when Lenore could stand no more talk of physics (chiefly quantum physics and theories on tunneling), they retired to the family room. In this small space, with two matching leather chairs and a television crammed between a work desk and library on opposite walls, Lenore sat knitting as Herman navigated the evening news for his name. Each time a network showed a stock photo or file footage he would shout, “Look pea, it’s me!”
At ten o’clock, the pair brushed their teeth and crawled into bed. Herman fumbled under the covers as he slid Lenore’s nightgown above her wide hips. His hand trembled as he traced invisible lines on her warm thighs. They were wrought with vericose veins. Lenore took his hand from her and placed it delicately on the pillow. She rolled over and whispered, “Goodnight, Herman.”
“But…” he whimpered, “I’m an international sensation. I’m bigger than Einstein. Einstein!” he exclaimed, still whispering.
“Not yet, you’re not.” Lenore said coldly. “You haven’t done anything yet, Herman.” He closed his eyes, and saw the same image that appeared whenever he closed his eyes. A recurring dream, you might call it…
***
to be continued…
